Category Archives: Da Doll Acts Up Not Out

A SNIPPET FROM the current work in progress to exposit the origin of Dolly’s nickname, Baby Troll.

Callsign: Baby Troll

The Gabrielle Dolly

When she and Aphrodite first arrived in Camp Meander via teleport, in September of ’97, the recruit company had been already a week into its training cycle. The dolly had, therefor, considerable catching up to do. She imagined and was subsequently told that there had been much debate as to whether it was wise to put her in such a position. It was seen by some as setting her up for failure. But Aphrodite was antsy and wanted her charge embarked on some activity — and meaningful activity at that; make-work was unacceptable. She asserted that the dolly would suffer far greater developmental damage from inactivity than from any possible failure. Further, she claimed, the dolly would not fail in any case.

An assessment with which the dolly was rather in greater agreement before she embarked on her training than she would be later on.

Until she got caught up, the dolly was subject to much harsh, no-nonsense treatment at the hands of the instructors, as she was always the last in her platoon at everything. Not only was she inexperienced and playing catchup, she was also smaller, lighter, and weaker than her platoon mates. Each new obstacle, each new task was to her a greater challenge than it would ever be to her comrades — even the billilaala, who were more her size.

It started the first day as she fell in on the parade ground with the rest and ended up at the wrong end of her rank. To be fair, they’d told her to line up according to height. Since everybody was taller than she, she figured it was mox nix — she’d always be the shortest and it made no never-mind which end she was on. She picked an end at random and took her position there. It was, however, a lapse which could not fail to attract the eye and ire of the lead instructor — Gunnery Sergeant Meru, a reputed martinet born in the Patkar Hills of Northern Burma and emigrant to the Canadian Rockies.

“What have we here?” the towering frekun ang said as she approached the dolly’s position at the wrong end of the rank. “Is this a baby Troll?”

Later, they would have better discipline, but it was early days, still, and the platoon had yet to learn better than to laugh.

“You lot think that’s funny, do you?” Meru asked in her very best parade ground voice. “Let’s see how funny you find it after a morning on the Main Loop. By squads. Double-time… HARCH!”

The Main Loop was a fifty-mile track that circumscribed most of the base. It was not paved. It was not level. It was cleared on occasion when NCOs thought some recruit unit needed to work on its brush-clearing skills. But otherwise, it was left alone, and the vegetation overgrew it with wild abandon. It was poorly marked. Passage through the woods just there was colloquially known as bush-whacking. It was held as an article of faith by all recruits that some alleged portions of the Loop existed only in the collective imaginations of the junior training NCOs, who accompanied trainee units on the route — and woe betide you if you mistook the trail. They might even send you back to start over. Independent Study, it was called.

For having been the cause of the platoon’s having to run the Loop — nobody ever walked the whole thing — the dolly caught holy Hell. She also earned a nickname from the experience. Nicknames were uncomfortable things to earn in Basic in the Troll Guard, so the instructors generally tried to find one for everybody — to spread the misery around evenly and find appropriate radio callsigns for everyone. The dolly’s was, from that day forth, Baby Troll. She’d be forever trying to live it down — until she learned to make it a badge of honor and accept it as her callsign. It’s worth noting that, once she’d made that accommodation with reality — as the Americans put it, once she’d embraced the suck — she was generally treated with greater respect.

Given that Bloomberg was a Democrat, who ran as a Republican when he perceived that would help him win, when he was — and remains — a rather unappealing candidate, and, now that he’s in a position where mending fences with Democrats again might do him some good in his further political ambitions, he’s taking up Democrat positions…

Not that gun control is a very Republican position in the first place.

Well, no. But still and all, please to note it’s Democrats who’re asking him to lay off.

And the biggest flat-earth society in existence today is within a mile along Pennsylvania Avenue in Dee off-Cee. They really do believe you can transform lead into gold, build a perpetual motion machine, and change the laws of economics by saying, “make it so”?

AND DA DOLL plans to participate. Photo from last year’s event. In observance of the day, I stole a scene from Alger’s latest work, The High T Affair, which is due out in probably two weeks, now, it looks like.

By the way, he’s still looking for beta readers.

Minoan Tits

“You dirty old man!” Olivia stage-whispered at him, slapping him on the shoulder while giggling and simultaneously trying to keep the blanket pulled tight around herself with only one hand.
“That’s me,” Drummond said as drolly as he could manage. “The old original cradle robber. Anyway, I’d wager it’s a high standard.”

“Eh?”

“Canadian not you are?” He grinned at her. “Your tits. If the rest is anything to judge by, I’d say they set a high standard. Might even be Minoan tits.”

“OK, now. What? In all. The Hells of Santa Ana. Are you talkin’ ’bout?”

“OK. Well. I can’t claim credit for this. I just heard it somewhere, but… You know those murals they discovered in the palace at Knossos  the capital of the Minoan Empire? (Which the Gods in Upothesa can tell you was the source of the Atlantis myth.) All those ladies of the court wearing their bosom-baring fashions?”

She nodded. “Sure as eggs, all of them heifers have fine knockers. Almost like somebody’s husband or daddy paid the painter to… improve on the subject.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Or the painters had a particular type.”

“Yeah. Minoan tits. So how…?”

“Well, you know, I’m sure, that there are those who want for it to be considered decent  or, at any rate, legal  for women to go topless in places not the beach or their bedrooms.”

He looked sidelong at her, one eyebrow raised.”

She pursed her lips. “I most certainly do. And I’d be in favor of it, too.”

“Because,” he said. “It would make you look good, you with your world-class, weapons-grade rack. Is I wrong, or is I right?”

“You is not wrong. Or so I hear.” She gave him a wicked grin. “I bet we could find us a linen closet and you an’ me could play doctor, ‘n’ I could prove it to you.”

Drummond grinned back at her. “Get thee behind me.”

“So what’s this-all got to do with prehistoric porn on palace walls?”

“I figure that, if they did make it legal for women to go topless, some bunch of fools with more power than sense would try to legislate on the basis of aesthetics. After all, it’s a matter of keepin’ our city beautiful. Can’t have big ol’ saggy hooters with wrinkly skin, hangin’ down to the lady’s knees out there for God and everybody to see…” Drummond realized he was unconsciously adopting Olivia’s Texas twang and, with an effort, stopped. “So… a particularly fine pair would be judged street-legal, or…”

Olivia gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Minoan tits! I love it!”

So, whip off those tops ladies. Particularly you young ‘uns with… Yes, with Minoan tits.

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